


Three Simple Rules

by ShadowofDarkness



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Transporter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3322823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowofDarkness/pseuds/ShadowofDarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Quinn is a Transporter, a highly skilled driver specialising in the transportation of packages from one place to another. She has only three rules. One: the deal is the deal. Two: No names. Three: do not open the package. But when she is tasked with Transporting Rachel Berry, Hollywood's newest starlet, to New York, she finds these rules tested time and time again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Simple Rules

**DISCLAIMER:** **I do not own Glee or The Transporter, all characters and plots are entirely fictitious.**

 -x-x-x-x-x-

The man watched impassively as the black Honda Civic pulled up the long path, wheels crunching against the gravel. He was well dressed in a tailored suit, and his jet-black hair was perfectly styled. He was a man who took a great deal of pride in his appearance, and his appearance matched his personality: rich as fuck.

His grey eyes observed the scene as a young woman stepped out of the car, walking around to the back and opening the trunk. He would put her in her mid-twenties, confident and professional. Mirrored sunglasses covered her eyes, and the pantsuit she wore gave the obvious impression that she took her job seriously.

He smiled slightly as she slammed the lid of the trunk down, the motion of lifting her arm pulling back her jacket slightly, the sunlight gleaming momentarily off of a gun concealed beneath her left arm. He could sense his bodyguards on either side of him tense slightly, clearly having noticed the firearm as well. He remained calm; the woman had no reason to draw her weapon. In less than five minutes, she would be gone, never to be seen again.

The man stood his ground, letting the woman come to him. Her blonde hair glimmered in the sunlight, the golden strands just brushing her shoulders. Her left hand was clasped around the handle of a metal case. Her right hand was empty.

This would seem an inconsequential observation to some, but there was obviously reasoning behind it. Most people, being right-handed, would carry the case in their right hand, but leaving her right hand empty meant easier access to her gun without needing to drop the case first. The man smiled again. This woman clearly knew what she was doing, and was prepared for any eventuality.

“You must be the Transporter.” the man said, smiling warmly at her. No need to burn bridges here. “Welcome, welcome.”

The woman said nothing. Instead, she raised the case, offering it to the man.

“Enrique.” he said crisply. The man on his right moved forward, taking the case from the driver. Balancing the case flat in one hand, he deftly clicked the locks open, lifting the lid and showing the contents to the suited man.

The man stepped forward, raising a hand. Slowly, almost reverently, he ran his palm across the large packets of white powder within. He raised his eyes, meeting the woman's. She didn't react, her face remaining stoic. He nodded internally. She hadn't opened the case.

“Excellent.” he murmured, closing the lid and stepping around Enrique, moving towards the driver, his hand slipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a small, thick, brown envelope.

“I believe this is yours.” he said, holding out the envelope. The woman nodded once, reaching out and taking the envelope in her left hand. The man smiled again.

“Have a safe trip.” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. Without another word, he turned and walked back to his house, his bodyguards close behind.

Quinn Fabray watched them leave, then, when she was sure they weren't going to turn back, turned on the spot and strode back to her car. Once she reached the driver's door, she reached out, pulled the door open and slid in, pulling the door shut again and fastening her seatbelt. She tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat and twisted the key in the ignition, feeling the car thrum as the engine roared into life. Craning her neck, she looked out of the rear window as she pulled her car around, driving out of the gate and back down the path.

She drove for almost half an hour until she stopped, sticking to the more deserted roads. Once she had killed the engine, she reached over and picked up the envelope. It was heavy, a good sign.

She slid a finger under a loose edge of the flap, slitting the paper open easily. Using one hand, she tented the envelope, while the other reached in, gripping the contents tightly and pulling them out.

Very few people ever saw this sight. A stack of hundred dollar bills, all crisp and neatly stacked. She riffled through the stack, much as a poker dealer would his set of cards, then slid the bills back into the envelope. She leaned over, opening the glove compartment and sliding the envelope inside. She closed the compartment and started the car again, turning back onto the road that would lead her back into Los Angeles.

The sleek, black Honda ate up the miles, the tarmac strip ahead of her disappearing under the hood of the car as she drove, the radio playing quietly in the background. The vast, empty highway soon gave way to leafy suburbs, and then, finally, the main city. Quinn reached out towards a row of buttons on her dashboard, pressing the button labeled 2. There was a soft _thunk_ as the plates switched to a new set. While she was sure that no one had seen the pickup, she could never be too careful. Transporting was a risky business.

The car moved through the streets, as nondescript as the other commuters. Quinn kept her gaze leveled straight ahead, effortlessly guiding the car along the familiar streets toward her apartment. As she drove, three fire engines raced past, sirens blaring, traffic moving to the side to let the large trucks past.

Halfway down a block, Quinn turned off, heading down a small alleyway leading to the garages. Her own garage door was open, just as she had left it. She smiled slightly as she turned her car, reversing easily into the enclosed bay. Once the car was safely within the confines of the garage, Quinn turned off the ignition, letting out a small sigh of relief.

She had learned quickly, way back when she had first started transporting, that the job was a lot easier when you didn't ask questions. Date. Destination. Fee. That was all she needed to know. She didn't need to know what she was carrying, or who she was carrying it for. Those were unnecessary distractions. So long as they paid at the other end, Quinn couldn't care less. 

There were three simple rules that Quinn worked by. Rule number one: The deal is the deal. More than once, Quinn had turned up to pick up a package, only to find that the client had added something last minute. Last minute changes could not be accepted. It made the planned routes more difficult, either by adding weight or changing the variables.

Rule number two: No names. Names invoked companionship, and Quinn found it easier to just do the job, without trying to work out who her client was through their name.

Rule number three: Do not open or converse with the package. Never in her career had Quinn concerned herself with what she was Transporting. She had run packages for very shady people before, and the vast majority of them were probably illegal. If she was caught, she would likely be in a lot of legal trouble. But she was never caught.

Quinn reached up and pulled off her sunglasses, slipping them inside her jacket. Pulling the small silver lever on the door panel, she let herself out of the car, closing the door again and locking the Honda behind her. She would bank the money tomorrow, it would be safe enough overnight.

She walked out of the garage, reaching up and pulling the door down, locking it securely, then turned and walked toward the rear entrance of her building, pulling the heavy door open and vanishing inside.

Quinn let out another sigh as a waft of cool air washed over her from the building’s air conditioning. She took a deep breath, then picked her way through the slightly cluttered storage room toward the door that would take her through to the atrium. While the residents were free to use that particular entrance, very few ever did. Quinn used it almost exclusively, as it allowed her to enter and exit the building almost completely unseen. Perfect.

When she entered the atrium, it was, as was usual, completely vacant. Most of the residents worked steady nine-to-five jobs, unlike Quinn, who worked when her skills were required. She preferred the peace. It allowed her to be at one with her thoughts, free from the distractions of everyone else's lives.

She pressed the elevator call button and waited, arms crossed, one foot tapping out an impatient rhythm on the polished linoleum. She could have taken the stairs, it was true, but at that moment, all she could think about was a hot shower, and the elevator would get her to her apartment on the top floor slightly quicker.

The bell dinged loudly as the elevator arrived, the shiny, silver doors sliding apart, allowing the young woman access. Quinn stepped in, pressing the button for the top floor without even looking at the console. The bell dinged again and the doors slid shut, the small metal box beginning its ascent.

Quinn watched unblinkingly as the numbers on the small screen in the corner counted upwards in a steady rhythm. When the elevator reached floor 47, the bell dinged again and the doors slid open. Quinn stepped out into a small antechamber, walking across the bare space to a door opposite the elevator.

While most normal buildings gave their residents keys, this building was home to the very rich and the very powerful. Therefore, security had been high on the list of priorities. Instead of a normal lock and key, each apartment door had been outfitted with a coded electronic lock.Quinn punched her own in without any thought, gripping the door handle and walking into her apartment.

As Quinn spent most of her time on the road, she was rarely in her apartment, and the minimal décor inside reflected this. The furniture was practical, rather than lavish, and no artwork hung on the walls. A bookshelf was stood in one corner, the shelves full, yet untouched. A TV dominated one wall, the dark screen coated with a fine layer of dust. An electric fireplace sat below a mantle, upon which stood the only photo in the apartment, one of Quinn and a friend whose face she barely recognized now.

Quinn closed the door behind her, waiting for the soft _click_ as the door locked again. She ran her hands through her hair as she walked through her apartment to her bedroom, almost hearing her shower calling to her.

Her bedroom was just as bare as her living room. Bed, wardrobe and an en suite. She didn't need anything else. A bedroom was for sleeping, and the occasional late night guest. She would never understand people who kept TV's or books in their bedroom.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, lifting her leg and untying the laces of her shoe, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground and then repeating the process with the other shoe. Standing up again, she shrugged off her jacket, tossing it onto her bed, then quickly disrobed, dropping her underwear into a small basket next to the door to the en suite. Her guns were carefully placed in the wardrobe.

Reaching into the shower, Quinn gripped the handle and turned, her hand darting back out as the water cascaded down from the shower head above. As she waited for the water to heat up, she regarded herself in the mirror.

Her physique was still as taut and muscular as ever, though not like a bodybuilder, instead, rather like that of a high school cheerleader. Leaning on the sink, she took a closer look at her eyes. Hazel orbs peered out of the glass at her, slightly bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her skin was still as pale and smooth as it had ever been.

Turning away from the mirror, Quinn stepped under the jets of water, letting the water run down her body, feeling the residual aches and pains melting away. With any luck, she'd be able to take it easy for a couple of weeks.

-x-x-x-x-x-

As Quinn was settling down for a quiet evening at home, a black sedan pulled up outside the LAPD headquarters. It was unremarkable, save for the tinted windows, and even that wasn't a wholly unfamiliar sight in the City of Angels.

The car sat there for a few moments, engine idling, then a man got out of the backseat, walking around the car to the other side. Dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses, he was clearly some form of security. He took a long time casting his gaze around at the surroundings before he opened the door, stepping back slightly to let the other passenger out.

Rachel Berry sighed lightly as she got out of the car, adjusting her dress as her bodyguard closed the door and escorted her into the police station. She understood the need for the secrecy and security, but that didn't mean she was happy about it.

Rachel Berry was a star, an actress that had come from some small town in the depths of Ohio and rocketed to the top of Hollywood in a matter of months. It was impossible to walk past a newsstand without seeing Rachel's face smiling out of a cover at you. That had been a few years ago. Now, she was one of the biggest names in showbiz.

That fame hadn't come easily, though. Which was why she was here now, being escorted through the halls of the LAPD headquarters, away from paparazzi cameras and nosy journalists. Rachel didn't particularly like it, but she hadn't been given much choice in the matter.

Her security guard led her through what seemed like a maze of corridors, and Rachel was about to ask if he knew where they were going when they stopped outside an interview room door. The man stepped forward and opened the door, then moved to the side, allowing Rachel into the room.

“Rachel!”

Her agent, Max Liebermann, rose from his seat, rushing over to her and hurrying her into the room. He pulled out a seat, gesturing for her to sit, then retook his own seat. He was a short man, with roughly styled blonde hair and a slight beer gut. He was never going to win any beauty contests, but he had a personality that was instantly endearing.

“Were you followed, Noah?” Max asked the guard. Noah shook his head.

“Not that I could tell.” His voice was clipped, professional. “No one saw us entering the building either.”

“Good, good.” Max said, sounding relieved. “If you wouldn't mind giving us some privacy, Mr Puckerman?”

Noah nodded, closing the door, though Rachel could still see his silhouette through the half-closed blinds.

“Max, what's going on?” Rachel demanded. “No one would tell me anything! Why am I here?”

Max sighed, reaching down and picking up a large folder, placing it deliberately onto the table.

“There's been an accident.” he said, but Rachel didn't like the way he said 'accident'.

“What do you mean?” she asked, eyeing the folder apprehensively. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to see the contents.

Max sighed again, then opened the folders, withdrawing several A4 photographs, laying them out on the table. Rachel leaned forward for a closer look, and gasped.

The photos were of her house. But it didn't look anything like her house. The windows were smashed, doors splintered, and she was sure she could see bullet holes in the walls. But what drew her attention immediately was the fact that everything was charred black. The house was more like a husk.

 Rachel's mouth fell open, and she forced herself not to cry.

“How – why – what happened?” she finally managed, her voice raspy, her mouth suddenly dry.

“We still don't fully know.” Max said, looking at the photos as well. “Whatever it was, it wasn't simply an electrical fire. This was premeditated.” He pointed to a particular picture. “See the bullet marks? Someone clearly planned this. People don't just rock up at a house and shoot the hell out of it. Someone wanted you dead.”

Rachel felt sick. She stared at the photographs, trying not to imagine what it would have been like if she were at home when the attack happened. The searing heat, the struggle for oxygen, the scorching pain as the flames consumed...

“So what happens now?” Rachel asked, changing the subject before her mind ran away with itself. The less she thought about it, the better.

“For the moment, we're going to keep you here, in protective custody.” Max said, his voice slightly apologetic. “We're currently setting up somewhere safe for you to stay until the authorities get to the bottom of this, outside of LA.”

“I don't want to leave LA!” Rachel exclaimed.

“We don't have much of a choice here!” Max argued. “While you're in LA, you are in danger! You're young, talented. You have your whole life ahead of you. Please, don't argue this time.”

Rachel bristled, a million thoughts running through her head. Eventually, she slumped back into her chair.

“Fine.” she conceded. “Where am I going?”

“New York.” Max said. “I have a couple of friends out there you can stay with. They'll look after you, and you can lie low for a while.”

“Why New York?” Rachel asked. “It's on the opposite side of the country.”

“Exactly.” Max said. “It's a long way away, and there's a lot of people there. You can lose yourself in the crowds, just another girl going about her daily business.”

Rachel was silent for a moment. When she was younger, she had dreamed of going to New York and becoming a star of Broadway. She had always hoped to make it to New York. She just wished that it were under better circumstances.

“When do we go?” she asked quietly.

“When do _you_ go.” Max corrected. “Answer? Once I've arranged transportation.”

“You're not coming?” Rachel asked. Max shook his head.

“No. The fewer people involved, the better.”

“And why do you need to arrange transport? Surely Puck could drive me?” Rachel asked.

“Again, the fewer people involved, the better.” Max said. “I've got a number from a friend of mine. A Transporter, someone who'll drive anything or anyone, no questions asked.”

Rachel didn't like the sound of that.

“Is that legal?”

“For them to drive you across the country? Perfectly.” Max replied.

“I mean, the no questions asked thing. They could drive anything. Weapons, drugs, bodies...”

“That's not our worry.” Max reassured her. “They'll pick you up, drive you to New York, then disappear. That's it.” 

“...Okay.” Rachel said quietly. Max's eyes narrowed slightly. 

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I'm fine.” Rachel said. “It's just a lot to take in, is all...”

Max nodded sympathetically.

“I know, I know.” He pushed his chair back, standing up. “If you'll excuse me, I have a call to make. Noah's right outside if you need anything.”

Rachel nodded, forcing herself not to look at the photos still out on the table. Max placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as he passed, then exited the room, closing the door behind him.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Quinn jumped as her cell phone rang, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. Sighing, she put down her gun and cloth, snatching up the phone and connecting the call.

“Hello.”

“Oh, hi.” It was a man, by the sound of his voice, mid thirties. “I was given this number by a friend. Am I to believe that you are in the business of transportation?”

“I am.” Quinn said, her tone wary, guarded.

“Thank God.” The man sounded relieved. “I have a job I need to discuss with you.”

Quinn sighed internally. _So much for taking it easy for a couple of weeks._

“Very well. Meet me at O'Connor's, on the corner of 12th and Keniston, at 8pm. I'll be in the third booth from the door. I will wait for five minutes only.” With that, she hung up, not interested in exchanging pleasantries. She tossed the phone back onto the table and picked up her gun and cloth again, resuming her cleaning of the firearm. 

Every time she wanted to take a break, another job always came up. It was like the universe didn't think she deserved a rest. All she could do was hope that it was an easy job.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Max Liebermann walked into O'Connor's bar at precisely 8pm. His eyes scanned the booths, coming to rest on the third booth from the door.

At first, he thought that maybe the Transporter wasn't here yet, as the only occupant of the booth was a young woman, maybe the same age as Rachel. As he looked at her, though, he could tell that she wasn't just your average Joe. Her eyes were constantly roving around the bar, taking in everything, analyzing, and then moving on. Her posture was too tight, too rigid, as though she were prepared to leap into action at a moment's notice. This wasn't a girl out for drinks with her girlfriends before hitting one of the many clubs in LA. This was a woman here for a purpose.

He walked over, his mouth suddenly going rather dry.

“Are you the Transporter?” he asked. The woman's eyes met his, her gaze boring into him, analyzing him. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Max sighed with relief and slid into the booth opposite her. Quinn didn't say anything, but withdrew from an inside pocket a small notebook and a pen.

“What's the job?” she asked bluntly, turning to a clean page.

Max swallowed, then spoke.

“I need you to drive my client out of Los Angeles.”

“Date?” Quinn asked, not looking at him.

“Tomorrow.”

“Time?”

“Early.”

Quinn looked up at him, fixing him with a hard stare.

“Time?” she asked again.

Max's mind raced.

“Uh, nine. Nine am.”

“Where from?”

“LAPD headquarters.” The rapid-fire questions were slightly unsettling. It seemed that the woman really wasn't interested in anything other than the job.

“Destination?”

“Poughkeepsie.” Max said, fishing in his pocket. “Here's the address.” He pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper, passing it to the blonde. Quinn picked it up, reading it quickly, then handed it back, making another note in her book.

“Dimensions?”

Max frowned, wondering how to answer the question.

“Uh, about 5'3”. Maybe a hundred pounds.”

Quinn looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“Fifty thousand dollars.” she said, closing her notebook and looking at him properly. “Twenty-five when I pick up the package, the other twenty-five when I reach the drop-off point. If there is no-one there to receive the package, that is not my responsibility. I will drop the package and I will leave. That is the deal.”

Max thought for a moment. Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, but if it kept Rachel safe, then it was worth every cent. Plus, he didn't have to worry about no-one being at the other end. He knew he could rely on Kurt. He didn't like the way she kept calling Rachel a “package”, though.

“Very well. Deal.” he said, extending his hand over the table. Quinn clasped it firmly, shaking it briefly.

“Rule number one: the deal is the deal. These details cannot and will not be altered. One package, to be driven to Poughkeepsie, and no further.”

“She's not a package!” Max burst out, slamming his fist against the table. A couple of patrons looked around at his sudden outburst, and he ducked his head. Quinn remained unfazed.

“Nine am. Tomorrow. LAPD headquarters. I will wait for five minutes only.” With that, she stood, sidled out of the booth and walked out of the bar.

Max watched her go, and as he did, he couldn't help but wonder whether he had just made a grave mistake.


End file.
